


Confidante

by Metronomeblue



Series: Grey Sanctuary [3]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Disabled Character, Don't look at me dont talk to me don’t bring this up, F/M, First Time, I Don't Even Know, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Negan Being Negan, Negan’s a dick but he's not that much of a dick, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Torture, Porn With Plot, caitlyn is bitter and negan is smitten, idek, sex with feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-15
Updated: 2016-11-15
Packaged: 2018-08-31 05:48:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8566351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Metronomeblue/pseuds/Metronomeblue
Summary: Negan comes to talk to a friend about some newcomers and finds himself giving voice- and action- to feelings neither of them has acknowledged. In other news I'm  complete trash- total garbage





	

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so the thirst is real, I’m trash, and this became really really emotional smut. Let’s do this bullshit.

They weren’t expecting Caitlyn. They were expecting Simon, and Matt and Sherry and Tina. Those were the kind of people you expected in this world- the yes-men, the sycophants, the rebels, the victims. Caitlyn wasn’t anyone’s yes-man, and she sure as fuck wasn’t anyone’s rebel. She was a thirty-year-old woman with two broken legs, numerous traumas, and clever hands. And Negan’s trust. Because that wasn’t unbelievable, somehow. 

And when it mattered, when the new kids were dragged into Negan’s system kicking and screaming and fighting it like their fucking lives depended on it, she was the one they came to. “Just convince him,” they’d beg her, “just make him leave us alone.“ 

 And she’d smile and nod and tell them no. She’d tell them “no, because this ain’t your world anymore.” And they’d look up at her in despair and disbelief that someone so rational and disagreeable and calm would side so completely with the madman who had beaten their friends to death. And she’d roll her wheelchair back into her house and close the door and start on her work, because that’s just the way her world worked. 

 It was one of those days- one of those days where a new group came around, and Negan had to bash in a few heads and they still fought. So he came into her room, her little one-room shack at the end of the compound, where nobody bothered her but him, and he knelt down in front of her wheelchair and sighed. 

“Hey there, darlin’.” He smiled up at her, wide and quiet and telling of spilled blood. “How’s your day been?” She smiled back at him, stroking one hand down the lapel of his jacket, and nodded. 

 "Henry came in to ask me to let ‘em go,“ she sighed, something grim coming out in her face. Negan nodded, laying his hands on her knees and looking down. 

“Sure he did. And what’d you tell ‘im?” He asked. She snorted, giving him a disdainful look. 

 "I told ‘im to go fuck himself, what’d you think I said?“ She raised an eyebrow at him, and the grin came back, lighting up his eyes like the sun.

 "That’s my girl,” he said through his teeth. 

 "You can go fuck yourself, too,“ she said fondly. He laughed, standing up and shaking his head, and she felt like grinning herself. “Fuckin’ loser,” she muttered, wheeling herself in. He held the door for her, and closed it behind himself. Courtesy or some shit, he called it. He was familiar with her room- he’d spent enough time there, God knows. 

 His smile didn’t fade as he looked it over, tracing the thin bed and the chest of drawers (she’d forcibly salvaged from an antique store ten miles away, and they never let her forget how hard she’d fought for them.) His hand followed the curve of the metal bed frame as he walked in, trailing off the edge to hang by his side. 

“Y'alright?” She asked, stowing some repair work in a drawer and pointedly avoiding his eyes. 

 "I’m just fuckin fine, darlin’,“ he said, making his way around to stand in front of her. She swallowed and looked down, fiddling with the hem of her shirt. “It’s you I’m worried about,” he began, tucking two fingers under her chin, pulling it up to force her to make eye contact with him. 

 "I’m fine,“ she said breezily, brushing his hand away. "I’m used to this.”

 "No you ain’t,“ he said, and she could feel that seriousness creep in- like a rain cloud, hanging over his usual glad-but-bloodthirsty demeanor. 

 "Nah,” she acknowledged after a pause. She looked up at him, curious grey eyes cleared and even. “But I should be." 

 "Yeah,” he agreed evenly. “But you ain’t, so what can you do." 

 "Not send people to their impending deaths?” She joked, rolling her eyes. “That’s be a nice change. I feel like the fucking grim reaper sometimes, the way even you avoid me.” His brow furrowed and he opened his mouth but she cut him off. “I mean, if I, personally, had the choice between myself and a dozen prettier, able-bodied, sweet mistresses, I have to say the choice seems awfully clear, so I can hardly blame you-" 

 "Cait.”

“And even if I could, I wouldn’t because let’s face it, I’m just a massive fucking wreck, and the only shit I can do is shoot people and fix shit and make things, and-”

 "Caitlyn.“

 "Yeah?” She broke off, tone still remarkably even in the face of his uncharacteristic terseness. 

 "You ain’t fucking useless.“ He said, eyes thick and hard to read, an expression on his face she’d never seen before. 

 "I mean, I know that-" 

 "No, I don’t think you fucking do. And for that matter,” he began shortly, “you ain’t any less than anyone else here just ‘cause your legs don’t work any more." 

"Well, objectively-”

 "Maybe I ain’t interested in being objective, Caitlyn.“ He leaned down again, laying his palms flat against her knees, the warmth from his palms sinking deep into shattered bone and torn muscle, old scar tissue that would never heal. "Maybe I’m interested in making abso-fucking-lately sure you’re alright. Maybe right now that’s all I’m interested in.”

 "Negan.“ She said it like a warning, like she had steel in her veins and a knife in her teeth. Maybe she did, metaphorically.

 "Cait,” he shot back, and she melted a little, tilting her head in old pain and new desperation. 

 "You’ve never…“ She broke off, something in her voice snapping and thin beneath his gaze. "Not with me.” And there was unspoken despair, in those words, old sadness she didn’t show, old weakness she’d buried. And here he was, dragging it out like he was gutting her. 

 "I’ve never what, Cait? Never fucked you? Never asked you to be my fucking wife?“ There was a tremor in him, too, a sharp bitterness rising in his voice. "How could I, after what I- after Wellspring?” And oh. The self-loathing in both of them, the wounds they never healed. Not even for each other. 

 "That wasn’t your fault, and you know it. You, me, Lucille, and fucking Oliver Banning know it, Negan.“ And she got it now, understood that when each man said he was Negan, Negan took that fucking seriously. That he took each man’s actions under his name and into his conscience- or whatever passed for a conscience. Murder, he could take. A lot of things, he could take. What Oliver Banning had done to her in Negan’s name- that he couldn’t. 

 "Don’t say his name,” he gritted out through his teeth, pressing his forehead to hers with an intensity, a deep feeling twisting his face all to holy hell and back. She took his face between her hands and she smiled. 

 "If it’s all the same to you, then, I’d much rather say yours,“ she said quietly, and she could feel the shit-eating grin in the corner of her mouth and the shake of laughter in his hands on her knees- warm and whole and hers in a way his wives could never have him. 

 "I’m going to take you on that fucking twin bed,” he swore, pressing a harsh, grinning kiss into her lips. 

 "Not afraid your lieutenants are gonna walk in on you fucking your friend?“ She whispered, a shit-eating grin of her own stretched across her mouth.

 "I ain’t gonna fuck you tonight,” he promised her, something dark and longing in his voice. He moved his hand up her legs to her hips, and she shivered at his touch before he moved them back down to lift her up by her thighs. She wrapped her arms around his neck, breathing heavily into his shoulder and he took one leg on either side of his waist and walked her across the room. Only then, after laying her down in her own bed, did he finish that promise. “I’m gonna make sweet fucking love to you tonight. Tomorrow,” he growled into the space between her neck and her ear, “Tomorrow I’ll fuck you good and hard.” She laughed and kissed him fiercely. 

 "And every night after,“ she joked. He smiled down at her then, a softer smile she’d never seen on his face before. 

 "And every fucking night after,” he promised again, sliding his hands up and down the insides of her thighs. 

 "Then you’d better get started then, Negan,“ she breathed, a wicked half-smile crossing her face. "Because I damn well plan on coming on your cock.” And he did, pulling her shirt over her head, leaving her hair tousled over her face like she was about to be soundly fucked, and he surged forward to kiss her again, biting at her lip and breathing in from her lungs like he couldn’t get enough. In turn, she reached for the zipper on his jacket, taking the opportunity to slide it down and open that leather jacket wide.

 He hitched a breath when her hands slid down his chest, gentle enough to tease, but firm enough to impress upon him a strange feeling, like she was trying to memorize all she could of him. Like she was desperate for whatever touch she could get. Her hands, so strong and so precise, slid back up and over his shoulders to pull his jacket down over his arms. 

 "Smooth,“ he laughed, as she rid him of it entirely. She grinned and reached for his shirt next. He stopped her, reaching up to smooth the hair from her face. "You’re so fucking beautiful, you know that?” He asked, and there was something in his eyes, then, too. She smiled sadly and shook her head. 

 "Now I know you’re delusional,“ she joked, and kissed him to stop him from arguing. She did pull his shirt off, hands immediately gravitating to his bare chest, tracing the scars large and small she found there. "I could have lost you,” she muttered, leaning forward to kiss one particularly nasty one arching over his hip up to where his kidneys were. “So many times.” She kissed her way back up to his mouth, and he found himself feeling strangely touched by the sentiment. 

“You didn’t,” he murmured back to her, pulling one stiff leg into his lap to undo her shoe. “You won’t.” He pulled her shoe off, then, to her amusement, her sock too, and gently placed her leg back beside him on the bed. He did the same with the other, bent at the knee so he could help her. He pressed a reverent kiss to the twisted mass of scar tissue over her knee, following its dips and turns and valleys down to her ankle, which he then returned, now bare, to his side. Having done this, he began with her pants. 

 "Stop that,“ she snorted, batting his hands away to unclasp her own trousers. "I’m not some invalid.”

 "No,“ he agreed, lifting her up entirely to sit on his still-clothed lap. "You’re just a woman whose legs don’t work.” She rolled her eyes again, but let him slide them down her legs until she was completely naked. She leaned back on her elbows and watched him strip off his own pants, hurried and uncaring, as different from his manner with her as night was to day. 

 "I didn’t really think that,“ she said quietly, as he climbed back into her bed to hover, struck for a moment, beside her. "That you didn’t care about me. I didn’t really believe that.” He gave her the same look from before, something harsh and flat and vicious peering out from those dark eyes.

 "Yeah, you did,“ he said firmly, moving to lay over her so his body entirely covered hers. "That’s the whole point of this, isn’t it? To show you that I more than fucking care about you, Cait.” He thrust into her then, and she gasped, arching her whole spine back with the intensity of feeling. It was like nothing she’d felt before- nothing. It was the heat from his palms, the strength in his grip, the fierceness with which he wielded Lucille- it was everything. Her whole world, shrunk down to the ache in her knees and his hands at her thighs and waist, his mouth, scratching a proprietary, loving path down her neck, the fullness between her legs, the wetness, the strange, priceless feeling of a world entirely occupied by herself and Negan. Nothing, she was certain in that moment, could ever hurt her. Because now she had this. She had Negan.

 "You listening?“ He rasped into her throat, and she suddenly realized that he must have felt it too. He must have felt that unnameable thing in his chest like a pang, like heartbreak and homecoming all at once. She let her head fall back as he thrust into her again, and again, and again. "I fucking love you,” he said, in a voice so muffled and hoarse and fragile she wanted to cry. She pulled her hands free from where they were clawing at the thin sheets to twist in his hair. She gasped, his hips colliding with hers, his hands burying themselves almost painfully in her back, her hands twisted deeply into his long hair like she could never let go. His voice pressed into her throat saying the only thing she ever wanted to hear. It was all so much. 

He thrust harder as she began to cry, tears of joy and despair and pain as her whole world fell apart and realigned- he was everywhere and everything, and for a moment she felt like she was Negan, too. He bucked into her steadily one last time, before he breathed out her name and came. 

In turn, she crested, every sensation building within her. She could feel him shaking apart in her arms, could feel his hips jerking inside of her and his seed spilling into her, hot as everything else that was a part of him. She felt that heat inside of her- hot like his blood and his temper and his palms, hot like the feeling in her cheeks when he smiled at her, hot like the burning in her breath even now as he was inside her and over her. She cried out, his name, high and lilting, as she came. He kissed her on the lips, gentle like that smile, and strong like his goddamn unbreakable rules, and forceful like his very soul. 

 "I love you,“ she whispered into his mouth, and she could feel his grin against her lips, so she smiled, too. 

 "You get me, darling,” he murmured back at her, still buried so deeply within her she wondered how he wasn’t uncomfortable. “You get all of me.” He kissed her again, smoothing back the hair she’d tangled earlier and she snorted.

 "Damn right,“ she said, smiling a dark, small smile. "You belong to me,” and it wasn’t ownership, really. Even if it was, they both knew he’d suck it the fuck up or she’d make him. He grimaced, and she giggled darkly, and he slid out of her in a movement that made them both groan in oversensitivity and regret for his leaving.

 They dressed slowly for the night, and he lifted her out of bed like a bride. She rolled her eyes and he laughed, and he even knelt to help her with her shoes. It was sweet, and new, and completely familiar, and they kept it close to their hearts when they donned their armor and went into the world. Because she was his and he was hers, and if the world didn’t like it they’d have to shut the fuck up

**Author's Note:**

> I'm thinking about a prequel and some stuff after yea?


End file.
